


Bag End Bakery: Butter, cream, eggs

by tari_roo



Series: Bag End Bakery [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Bilbo saves the day, Disasters in Baking, Fruitcake, GBBO Inspired, Gen, Nothing like a good pudding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 14:11:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8404669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tari_roo/pseuds/tari_roo
Summary: Bilbo had always wanted to be a baker but time, society and breeding did not permit such frivolities. That is however, until a party of Dwarves turned his quiet evening upside down and Bilbo finds himself on the improbable path of baking albeit not for a living, but because he loves it. Oh, and it may just save all of their lives, or at least their digestive tracts. Good baking generally does.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite obviously an AU. If you are reading this, I assume that you know the books or the movies. If you don’t, please feel free to read anyway. It’s the coffee-shop slash bakery AU without any pairings that you were not expecting. I know I wasn’t. For those on a diet (er, why do I do this to myself) read with caution. Vegetarians be warned – descriptions of delicious roasts, etc.

Chapter 1

For as long as Bilbo could remember, he had wanted to be a baker. One of his fondest childhood memories was of standing on a stool in Nana Laura's kitchen, helping her bake scones. To this day whenever he smelt hot scones and fresh strawberry jam, he was drawn back to the giddy child-like joy of tasting something he had had a part in making. Soft buttery scone melting against his tongue, rich strawberry jam bursting in his mouth, Nana's laughter as he tried to eat two scones at once.  His grandfather, Old Mungo, had declared those first scones as the finest he'd ever tasted. To young Bilbo, it hardly mattered that his grandfather subsequently declared all of Bilbo's efforts as the 'finest in Hobbiton', even the disastrous crab apple tart, which not even a torrent of custard could save. That first batch of roughly shaped scones had sealed his love of baked goods and baking.

The love of good food was a hallmark characteristic of all residents of Hobbiton. From the earliest days when Hobbiton was a tiny village to the present where Hobbiton was a delightful scenic neighbourhood in the broader metropolis of Rivendell, its residents treated food and the consumption thereof as one of the joys of life. Good, wholesome products from long established farms were brought in daily, to busy markets and grocers. Not content to merely purchase superior produce, most residents in Hobbiton maintained their own gardens, either on rooftops or in orderly allotments, adding to the overall 'green' feel the neighbourhood was known for. They loved their food and were not shy about that fervent obsession.

However, for a hobbit from the more genteel, or upper crust of the society within their corner of Rivendell, embarking in a career of pastry and baked goods, was frowned upon. While Bilbo's mother had not actively discouraged his obsession with baking, as afterall, an appreciation of good food was very 'hobbitish', she often cautioned his desire to pursue it as a career. His father had been far more direct and on an equally memorable day, Bungo had clearly told his young adult son that it wasn't fit for a Baggins to be a shopkeeper, let alone a baker.

"Bake all you want, Bilbo my son, bake those delightful cakes whenever you wish. But keep them for family occasions and our private consumption. You are a Baggins, and no Baggins has ever hawked their wares on the street like a common Neargirdle."

The contradiction to this statement was never quite clear to young Bilbo, and even years later, when he had Bag End all to himself after his parent's death, he still felt a smidgen of discontent when he visited the large kitchens downstairs. Baggins may not be storekeepers or bakers, but they were certainly not above entertaining the elite of Hobbiton society.

For hundreds of years the Bagginses had been amidst the cream of Hobbit society. A distant forefather had made the family fortune when he sold most of their land to Elrond the Great, the Elvar who had established Imladris. As the ancient Elvar city had slowly encroached on the village of Hobbiton, its residents had maintained their distinct identity and still referred to themselves as Hobbits, despite having long since been incorporated into the larger Elvar nation. Over the years, the Baggins ancestral home had risen above the small houses of the village, matching their rise in society, until their little empire included Bag End, a multi-storey building with several floors of living space for the broad Baggins clan, an allotment to the rear of the building that could more appropriately be called a park and several tenements within Hobbiton that brought in rental income. While most of the wealthy citizens of Rivendell used roof-tops and penthouse suites to show off their wealth, in Hobbiton your ground floor was truly your symbol of prosperity. If you dedicated your ground floor to such frivolous activities as entertainment and dinner parties, then you were truly well-to-do. From Balbo, to Mungo and finally Bungo, each successive son improved upon the ground floor of Bag End until it was a place fit to entertain royalty. A kitchen so impressive it had three ovens, including a range and a roasting spit, ample work benches and a massive cold room. Beyond the kitchen was the luxurious entertainment area, complete with bar and comfortable seating fit for any hobbit. Large windows let in warm sunlight during the day and at night offered a delightful view of the leafy streets of Hobbiton aglow with street lamps and houselights.

His parents had hosted many a party, bringing in Elvar, Dwarvish, Gondorian and Arnorian caterers to wow their friends. Local lads and lasses were always eager to earn some extra money as servers and experience the amazing food and lifestyle of the genteel Hobbit. For several, glorious years, Bag-end and the Bagginses had been the toast of Hobbiton. Whenever Bilbo thought of his parents, most often he remembered the long summer nights where their parties drew in the whole neighbourhood and spilled over into the gardens, lights hanging from the great Party tree, the sound of laughter and music in the air.

His parents had died the year Bilbo was finishing his third degree at the university. While Bilbo loved a good feast, in the long years since their death, he had not once thrown a similar party. To some, this meant Bilbo was even more genteel – as now he had space that wasn't even used. To others, like his cousin-in-law Lobelia, it meant that Bilbo was flaunting tradition and besmirching the family name. Despite her repeated requests and demands, Bilbo kept the ground floor of Bag End exactly as his parents had left it.

Fortunately for Bilbo, his talents did not lie solely in the kitchen and he had taken up the far more acceptable career for a gentle hobbit of author.

His parents had lived long enough to see his first book published and their praise and pride at his little book still resonated with Bilbo. _The Gardens of Hobbiton_ was a thin, easy read of a page turner that was now in its fourth print. It was part travel guide, part local history as Bilbo described the treasures of Hobbiton, the old walled gardens, the newer parks and the little pockets of countryside preserved within the city. Bilbo had expected that only his fellow hobbits would buy it, but the book had brought increased foot traffic and interest from other Rivendell residents, both Elvar and non. One of his proudest moments was bumping into an elderly Elvar, who hailed from Lindon, the port several miles away, who had taken a train in for the day – just to see Hobbiton as a result of reading Bilbo's book.

In the years after his parent's death when Bag End had felt too empty, too lonely, Bilbo had explored broader Rivendell and was even more surprised that his second book, _The Treeline of Rivendell_ was even more successful than the first. Much of the old city of Imladris had been laid waste during the Black Wars, and while the newly invigorated Rivendell emerged from the ruins, large parts of the ruined old city were left untouched, in memoriam for what had once been. Rather than become an eye-sore or stark, harsh reminder of the past, the talented Elvar architects and gardeners had transformed the ruins into a lush, winding stretch of park land where trees, grasses, water features and quiet gardens sprung up in the ruins. Officially named 'The Imladris Memorial', most folk referred to it as the Treeline, as ambitious gardeners and amateur botanists planted trees at all levels of the old buildings.

Bilbo had spent many a happy hour exploring the Treeline, lost in its green swath of beautiful architecture and greenery and his book brought a fresh wave of interest in the old parks and avenues. If Bilbo had not already had a family fortune to support himself, he made his own with the second book.

His friend Gandalf had encouraged and inspired book three _Beyond Rivendell_. For nearly two years, Bilbo travelled the surrounding countryside, visiting small villages and towns, gathering funny stories, interesting bits of local lore and history, trying local food and ale. He went as far as Lindon to the west and Eregion to the east, and travelled both by foot and by train. While writing his fourth book, he revisited a few of his favourite places and when _Leaving Rivendell_ hit the shelves, it was an instant bestseller. Bilbo was the toast of the town and spent several months hopping from party to party, event to event. He was even invited to speak at his alma mater, Rivendell University and his lecture filled the auditorium. What pleased him the most though were the letters of thanks he received from the small bakeries, restaurants and hotels he'd visited and mentioned in the book. Their business was booming and it was all due to Bilbo's wonderful turn of phrase and high praise.

After nearly six months of relentless activity, of smiling and shaking hands, of listening to the same old spiel about how wonderful he was, could he see his way to writing a book about the best farmers, best restaurants, best fishmongers, best bookstores in Rivendell, Lindon, Lorien and Wood Realm, Bilbo withdrew from society. Pleading a very real exhaustion, Bilbo politely declined all invitations and declared that he needed some time to rejuvenate and contemplate his next adventure.

That was three years ago.

The steady flood of invitations had slowed to sporadic rain, normally accompanying a reprint, or re-release of one of his books. Bilbo had consented to a total of three invitations over that period. A feast at the University. A function at the palace – one did not decline an invitation from Prince Elrond. And his great uncle Largo's birthday.

Other than that, Bilbo had enjoyed a quiet, restful three years. If anyone asked him (not that many people did) how he filled his days, he could answer honestly that he took long walks in the Treeline, visited his favourite farms and country houses, went on two to three day rambles from his home into East Farthing Woods and beyond. What he never mentioned was the peaceful contentment he felt when he baked muffins for his lunch, pastries for distant friends and pies for the road. In all honesty, Bilbo himself perhaps had not realised that many of his excursions were mere excuses to bake something in preparation for the journey. What he was cognisant of was the pleasure of a cold pork and watercress pot pie while seated on an overturned pillar, high up in the Treeline. Or the relish with which he demolished a fresh fruit bun slathered with butter on the train to Lindon.

 

One morning, when the air was still crisp and chilly but the spring sun was warming the air and chasing the lingering cold away, Bilbo stood in the modest kitchen on second floor, happily mixing up a batch of tea biscuits. Contrary to tradition, Bilbo had added vanilla bean into the mix and the kitchen was filled with the heady scent of vanilla. With breakfast and second breakfast out of the way, Bilbo felt like a strong cup of tea with some fresh biscuits which would be ready just in time for elevenses. As he combined the ingredients, he sang softly to himself, attention cleanly split between the bowl and window. It was a glorious morning, all the more glorious due to the clear, cold air sweeping down from the mountains. The view from Bag End was mostly unobstructed, and from his vantage point he could see across the cheery streets of Hobbiton all the way to distant farmlands and hills of the countryside. Hobbiton remained an outlying borough of Rivendell, with its paved streets eventually giving way to country roads. The towering White Mountains which protected Rivendell to the North East were unseen, rising up behind Bag End from this view. On the streets below, local hobbits and residents of Hobbiton were out and about, many a conversation taking place on street corners and over yard fences. Off to the right, Hamfast Gamgee was working in the Baggins allotment, clearing away winter debris.

Judging the mix ready, Bilbo sang quietly to himself as he spooned the mixture out on the bench for rolling and cutting. "Over snow by winter sown, and through the merry flowers of June, over grass and over stone, and under mounts in the moon."

When the first batch was in the oven, Bilbo wiped and cleaned up the scattered flour and sugar, noting the placement of the hands on the time piece on his window sill. Next to the dwarf-crafted timepiece was a large bowl of bright blueberries. It was early in the year for them, and he'd been pleasantly surprised to see them in the market yesterday. They were a little tart, but the more he studied them, the more Bilbo could taste a light, airy muffin bursting with tart berries, topped with sugar or icing. Putting aside his second tray of biscuits, ready for the oven, Bilbo took out another bowl, and started sifting flour for a light, brioche style muffin.

Once the dough was in the proving drawer, Bilbo's biscuits were done. Placing the second tray inside the oven, Bilbo smelt the warm, golden biscuits on his counter and smiled. Perfect.

Leaving the tea biscuits to cool, the muffin brioche to rise, Bilbo slipped into the library, in search of a good book. As the clock in the dining room struck eleven (it was always the first to strike, no matter how many clockmakers fixed it), Bilbo was seated on his balcony, a pot of tea on a tray next to him on the smooth table, and a plate of fresh biscuits ready to be dunked placed close at hand. Settling into the soft cushions, shaped after many an hour to fit his rear perfectly, Bilbo sighed, the _Tales of Drego the Snide_ resting on his lap, green cover closed. His timepiece was now on the tray as well, ticking away towards the time when the dough was ready. All felt right in his world. Tea, biscuits, a good book and a perfect spring day.

"Perfect."

"You are easily pleased then, Master Baggins!"

Startled, Bilbo looked up and over at the narrow staircase which lead up from the street to his balcony. Slowly climbing the stairs, his dark grey suit accompanied by a pale white scarf, Gandalf Grey reached the ornamental gate decoratively barring stranger’s entry and opened it.

"Gandalf! Good morning!" Bilbo beamed, getting to his feet, but his friend waved him down and without invitation sat down in the chair across from Bilbo. Groaning a little as he did, Gandalf sighed, "A good morning indeed, but I fear my muscles are not happy with me today." He grimaced as he straightened but shot Bilbo a small smile.

"Well, my friend, despite what you may think, full contact croquet is a young man's game and you are not a young…"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence, Master Baggins! Don't you dare!" Gandalf snapped his fingers at Bilbo, his mouth pursed in anger but his eyes alight with laughter. His beard was more grey and white these days and while he kept it fairly short and well-trimmed, Gandalf nonetheless refused to cave into the fashion of shaving off a beard to appear younger. "I'll have you know, Bilbo, that not only did we win yesterday by a good margin, I ran my mark into the ground! The young fool had the audacity to offer to 'take it easy on me'. Ha! Well, I showed him!"

Laughing, Bilbo nodded in agreement, leaning forward to pour some tea. "Oh, you surely did, but at what price, hm? Tea?"

"Thank you, yes. The price was worth it. Impudent imp." Gandalf took a steamy cup of tea from Bilbo, and snagged himself two biscuits at the same time. "I'm glad I popped by, if these are yours?" He waved one of the biscuits at Bilbo, the other already in his mouth.

Bilbo nodded, dunking his own biscuit, watching the golden texture turn dark with tea, "Yep, made them this morning."

"I hope there are more than that paltry plate, my dear Bilbo," Gandalf mumbled, not even bothering with dunking the biscuits. Tucking his book into the side pocket on his chair, Bilbo munched quietly, not needing to reply. Gandalf knew there would be more biscuits.

"Any luck finding a TA yet?"

Gandalf's humph said it all, but he proceeded to regale Bilbo with the latest round of failed TA applicants. Bilbo was clutching his stomach, aching with laughter as Gandalf gesticulated furiously when the timepiece 'dinged' announcing the dough was ready. Wiping tears from his eyes, he stood and hiccupped, "I fear my friend that unless you allow for some level of immaturity you will remain snowed under with paperwork."

The kitchen was lovely and warm from the oven, and Gandalf followed him inside, sipping his second, perhaps third cup of tea. "As much as you are no doubt correct, Bilbo, I cannot abide foolishness of any sort. It continues to boggle my mind that honours and masters students who should know better, continue to act under the delusion that I am doing them the favour of hiring them." Bilbo pulled the dough out of the drawer and smiled at the good size which the dough had achieved. Normally, he'd prove the brioche one further time in the cold room, but as he was doing a hybrid muffin rather than a true brioche, he began mixing in the blueberries and some candied orange pieces, very gently.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Gandalf stretched his legs out and asked, "Are you planning another ramble?"

Bilbo shook his head, concentrating on the fruit, trying not to break the berries. "No, I had rather a hankering for muffins, so here we are."  One of the berries, slightly overripe already burst and left a trail of bright blue purple in the dough. Conscious that the fruit and its moisture made the dough heavier, Bilbo hesitated. A vision of a pale, vanilla muffin with bright swirls of purple through it, dotted with orange and sugar popped into his head and he hummed to himself. Listening to Gandalf with half an ear, Bilbo quickly mashed up a few berries, strained the pulp, tossed in some sugar and honey and gently worked the swirl through the dough, before shaping the dough into balls which fit in a muffin tin.  Brushing the dough with an egg wash, he gently slide them into the oven. Hopeful that his experiment would work, he dusted off his hands and said brightly, "Fancy another cuppa?"

"Oh, no," Gandalf sighed, "I am due at the Dean's office for lunch."

"Heads of Department?" Bilbo asked, joining Gandalf at the table, taking a tea biscuit off the diminishing pile. Gandalf nodded, mouth full of biscuit. "Why do you think I'm here, filling up on your fine baking, Bilbo. I swear the Dean has the palate of a mole. Bland, tasteless and feeble appears to his standard order for the caterers."

Bilbo bobbed his head in agreement, well aware of the standard of some University dinners. Content silence filled the room, as the happy aromas of vanilla tea biscuits mixed with the sharp fruity muffin/buns.

"Say, why don't you cater for the University?"

Startled for the second time that morning, Bilbo nearly choked on his biccie and stared at Gandalf, eyes wide and watering. "Wha?"

Gandalf's expression was one of rapidly growing realisation and a smattering of cunning. It was an expression Bilbo had long ago learned to fear when he first met his friend. As a first year student starting his first degree, his unlikely friendship with his professor's TA had surprised both of them. Gandalf Grey, double major in Pyrotechnics and Diplomacy was reading for his Masters in International Negotiation and Strategic Manipulation when young Bilbo Baggins had taken Professor Gil-galad's class, _The Art of Diplomacy: When lying stops a war._ Their friendship was born on the evening they spent engaged in a heated debate on the ethics of deception to serve the greater good and secrecy vs the greater good. Despite their vastly differing opinions, their friendship was solidified over the course of the semester and while Bilbo had abandoned all classes associated with Diplomacy, they had continued to meet often to argue and debate. Mostly argue.

Undeterred by his spluttering friend, who was reaching for his handkerchief, Gandalf beamed, "You'd be marvellous, dear Bilbo! Just imagine the bounty and range of biscuits, buns and breads you could sell to starved Professors. You'd corner the market, I dare say. Most of us would kill a student for a good biscotti or three."

"I, I, I…don't," Bilbo coughed. Gandalf slapped him on the back and once the biscuit was dislodged, Bilbo spluttered, "I think not. I think not. The occasional biscuit or cake is one thing, but supply a horde of gannets and gluttons. No, no, no. No thank you."

The worrying expression did not fade from Gandalf's face, in fact it deepened, like he was shuffling cards in his head, aligning his thoughts. Before his friend could concoct any madcap ideas, Bilbo stood and pointed his finger firmly at Gandalf, "I am not a baker, Gandalf. Nor do I want to be. I bake for pleasure not money and I absolutely refuse to discuss this any further!"

Gandalf remained silent, and nodded solemnly. His eyes however gave him away, and Bilbo shook his finger at them too for good measure. "I mean it, Professor Grey!"

"Come, I have time for a smoke before I must be off. Join me?" Gandalf stood to his impressive height, dark suit un-creased and neat. Bilbo considered refusing the offer, just to emphasise how displeased he was, but the prospect of some Old Toby was too enchanting to resist, so he agreed with a grumble.

Gandalf left with two muffins straight from the oven, too hot to eat but tucked into his pocket after being wrapped in a serviette. Bilbo slathered some butter onto his muffin, watched it melt and he bit into it with far more ferocity than the soft muffin warranted. It was heavenly. The blueberry ripple could use some work, but as a concept, he had a winner. As he buttered up a second one, Bilbo refused to think of the lie that still echoed in his head. _I do not want to be baker._ Instead, shoving the rest of the muffin into his mouth, and grabbing one of his mother's finest 'every day' plates for the other, he stormed off into his study. It was time to plan his next trip.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knock knock

Chapter 2

The next day Bilbo deliberately did not bake anything – even though it was perfect weather for Eccles cakes and scones. Instead, he confined himself to the non-culinary rooms of the floor he lived on, and plotted his next trip.

His new pictograph-etcher that produced a fairly decent reproduction of whatever you pointed it at was perched on his desk, the cunning metal cogs, springs and shutters, gleaming in the afternoon sun. Pictograph-etchers were all the rage these days. Whilst too expensive for your everyday Hobbiton resident, for those who could afford a little frivolous spending the latest dwarf invention was making in-roads into high society. Whilst most of his peers, especially his cousin-in-law Lobelia were all for taking pictos of themselves and their family, Bilbo loved taking pictos of scenery and nature. The incredible device had a marvellous knack for capturing detail, but still failed to reproduce colour more vibrant than 'washed out'. Whilst Bilbo had already put in an order for the newer, supposedly 'techni-colour' version due out at the end of the year, he nonetheless liked the artistic rendering the pictographs made of his favourite parts of Hobbiton and Rivendell. These days he normally took his pictograph along on his walks, and he was contemplating discussing a 'book with pictos' with his editor. It was a weedpipe-dream to be sure, but Bilbo rather fancied that one day, he could illustrate his books with pictos of the places and people he met, rather than sketches.

He had a large map of Eriador laid out on the table in his study, as his desk was too burdened with papers, tickets and pictos – not to mention the pictograph-etcher. Heavy, luscious sunlight was streaming in through the window, and it felt lovely on his back as he studied the map. Where to go next? Somewhere new? Somewhere old? Somewhere foreign? There was still much of Eriador Bilbo had not visited, but the prospect of perhaps taking the luxury train to Minas Tirith or Osgiliath was highly appealing. Stories about the splendour of the White City which rose up like a ship from the Grey Mountains had intrigued Bilbo for years. Or perhaps he could go north and finally see Wood Realm and perhaps even visit Dwarfland. So many options, so little direction.

The chiming of his doorbell interrupted Bilbo's internal debate over the merits of new vs old revisited and it was with a mind half-turned to the far north or prospects of a fry up in Lindon that he padded to the door and flung it open with a, "Good day?"

"Mister Baggins?"

Bilbo blinked. Two young people, Dwarves by their dress and speech stood on his front landing and bowed. "Fili Durin, at your service."

"Kili Durin, at your service."

"Hello?" Bilbo stammered, wondering if his thoughts of the North had drawn two of its denizens to visit him – either to persuade or dissuade him from visiting. The one who had named himself Fili beamed and said brightly, "Professor Grey said that you had a large space and an industrial kitchen we could use?"

"Large space?" Bilbo gasped, his feet shuffling a little.

"And an industrial kitchen," Kili smiled, brushing hair from his face as he spoke. "Our land-lord initially said we could hold it in the common room, but he's turned into a real dragon about the whole thing when we mentioned the number of guests."

"A dragon?" Bilbo blinked and made the mistake of taking a step back.

"Oh, yes, right old miser he is. Refused to let us go ahead on account of possible breakages. The Professor told us to try you… well, here we are," Fili said, leaning against the doorway slightly and peering into Bilbo's home.

"Here you are," Bilbo mumbled, still caught in the wonder of dwarves on his doorstep. Kili also leant forward a little to see into the spacious rooms of Bag End.

"Nice place, Mr Baggins. And the kitchen?' Kili asked, eyebrows bobbing slightly as he offered his compliment.

For the remainder of his days, Bilbo could never quite reconcile why he blurted out, "It's downstairs," instead of, "Go away," or "You have the wrong house/person/Hobbit." If he had ever mentioned his consternation over his little slip to Gandalf, his friend would have chalked it up to a subconscious expression of his true-heart's desire. Bilbo though for many months chalked it up to a complete and utter lapse in judgement.

"It's downstairs," he said, voice as clear as a bell.

"Excellent!" Fili did not exactly shove his way inside, as Bilbo had foolishly created some distance between himself, the door and the strangers on his doorstep and Kili followed swiftly after, both dwarves heading down the stairs Bilbo had inadvertently indicated towards when he said "downstairs". Staring at his hand, Bilbo wondered how on earth they had translated stupor to 'welcome, come on in."

As the dwarves passed him, Bilbo turned and watched them clomp down the narrow staircase to the ground floor which he had not visited in years. For a long moment he alternated from staring at the door, the now empty doorway and then back to the stairs. Normally far quicker and brighter of thought, belatedly Bilbo shut the door and cried, "Now, hang on!"

Fast as you like, he bustled down the stairs, flicking on the lights as he did and Fili cried, "Oh, that's better. Wow, what a place!"

Kili was peering at the ovens, poking at the various dials and settings. "I think this'll handle Bombur's pig."

"Now see here," Bilbo started but interrupted himself with, "The spit is better suited to a pig." Kili stopped fiddling with dials and peered instead at the massive spit, grinning.

"Right you are, Mister Baggins," Fili agreed, wiping his hands on the dusty counters. "I reckon we can get this place clean in a lick. Get started on vegetables and potatoes in no time once the meat is in." Bilbo turned to argue, nay demand their immediate exit and started saying, "There's no point cleaning…"

"Would you look at the size of this cold room! You could get lost in here!" Kili exclaimed, his voice coming from inside the large room, the heavy stone door open.

"My grandfather commissioned it, never mind that, you must…" Bilbo stammered, walking towards Kili, who emerged from the cold room, shivering dramatically.

"Oh there is more than enough space here! We might need to bring some more chairs though," Fili's voice echoed from the front room, and Kili walked over, followed by Bilbo who was trying to find the appropriate time to say again, "Now see here!"

"Wow! This is great, Mr Baggins, so much space," Kili cried as they pushed through the swing doors into the entertainment area. Bilbo hurried after, saying loudly, "Yes, yes, but you can't just…" Neither dwarf was paying him the slightest bit of attention, both talking at once pointing at various parts of the room, the bar, the broad fireplace.

"We could put the head table there."

"Better leave seating stuff to Balin, you know how he gets."

"True. But don't let Ori or Nori run the bar, we'll lose half the ale in an hour."

"Mum'll want to put up some décor I think."

"Gloin and Bofur can set up their instruments there."

The two dwarves, polar opposites in appearance but twins in mannerisms and speech bustled around the large room like annoying bees, and while part of Bilbo preened slightly at the compliments they were bestowing on his parent's ballroom, a larger, more irate part of him was rapidly losing patience, and politeness.

"Now see here!" Bilbo shouted, standing on his very tiptoes, determined to be heard. Silence fell over the large room and Bilbo nearly coloured with embarrassment, but firmly told himself the colour in his face was from anger, not embarrassment. Both young dwarves turned around, and Fili dramatically slapped his head and cried, "Of course. The cost of the rental. We had offered Iffy Smaug a hundred, but I'm sure we can spare more as this place is so much nicer."

"Yeah, much nicer than that dingy common room," Kili agreed, although his finger was black with dust as he ran it across the bar. "Well, maybe a reduction on price for cleaning."

"I did not agree…" Bilbo demanded, desperate to complete a sentence. However, Fili closed the distance and Bilbo did not shrink back. Oh no, he did not. Maybe he did a little. 'We'll supply all the food and ingredients," Fili reassured him, his stylish moustache catching the light from the windows.

"Ale too," Kili said.

"And the wine," Fili added, ticking off his fingers.

"Music and firewood," Kili said as he kicked the fireplace, sending up a spray of soot and ash.

"And we'll clean it before and after, Mr Baggins." Fili beamed at him.

Perhaps it was their hopeful and oh so earnest expressions. Perhaps it was the edge of desperation in their voices. At first all the more determined to toss these interlopers out on their ears, Bilbo opened his mouth to firmly roust them but as their expressions registered in the people-watcher and reader part of his brain, he paused. They were young, to be sure, but there was certain 'something' that tweaked the curious story-teller's interest. If he had been on a trip, or gosh, anywhere but his home, he would have stopped and listened to their story, helped if he could. Why so desperate? What was going on? Who were these young folk?

And so, in yet another surprising turn, Bilbo heard himself say briskly, "A hundred is fine. No cleaning discount. And you clear out at midnight." The outraged, polite and genteel hobbit part of his mind was flabbergasted. What had he said?

"Done!" Fili cried, clasping Bilbo's hand with a vice-like grip. Fili's palm was calloused and rough, like he'd spent a lifetime in physical, hard labour. It was however a good handshake, firm but not too strong, no attempt to crush his fingers. Then Kili was there, offering a similar if not slightly less calloused grip.

"Thank you, Mr Baggins. Thank you. Fili, send that messenger now, we don't have much time."

Frowning, brow creased, Bilbo extracted his hand from Kili and watched Fili pull out a small artificial bird from his pocket. Giving the clockwork bird a quick wind-up, Fili whispered something to it in a language Bilbo assumed was dwarfish. Striding over to the door, Fili pulled it open, and while the door stuck a little, it opened nonetheless and he tossed the bird in the air. It flitted off, mechanical wings whirring and disappeared down the street.

"Is that a…" Bilbo stammered.

"Messenger bird, yep. Our family makes them. Quite useful," Kili smiled, and slapped Bilbo on the back. "Let's get cleaning. Do you have a mop and buckets?"

As his afternoon had been side-tracked so suddenly, Bilbo could be forgiven for not quite understanding the request and once again, his mouth seemed capable of answering even when his brain was still circling questions like, "What are dwarves doing here" and "Did I leave the front door open?"

"In the storeroom, and in the kitchen."

"Grand. Soap too? We'll replace whatever we use."

Numbly Bilbo nodded, and Kili strode off, his heavy boots thudding on the smooth floor, heading for the storeroom. A nagging, frightful suspicion was blooming in Bilbo's befuddled mind. "We’d wash everything down first, looks like years’ worth of dust!" Fili said from the other side of the room, stripping off his coat and rolling up his sleeves.

Two and two finally made four and Bilbo exclaimed, "Wait, is this party tonight?"

"Yep, is that problem?" Kili shouted, struggling with mops, buckets and brooms as dozens seem to fall out of the storeroom.

Bilbo opened his mouth to freshly exclaim "Yes!" but that was hardly true and while his plans for the evening had been his usual ones, i.e. a decent tea, good book and an early night, it felt hardly relevant. So instead he said quietly, "No, no problem."

"Excellent!" Kili breezed by him with empty buckets, heading towards the kitchen and Bilbo followed like an aimless fart, caught up in the motion of his young invaders. He helped Kili fill the buckets with both hot and cold water, before lugging it out into the ballroom. Kili relieved him of the last bucket with a cheery "Thanks!" and Bilbo stood motionless, caught in indecision. Should he help? Was he supposed to? It was his venue, to be sure, but they had invited themselves in, so did that necessitate that Bilbo should help clean?

Neither dwarf seemed to expect him to help, but Bilbo found it uncomfortable just watching so he picked up a duster and began cleaning the overhead lights, telling himself he needed to make sure the delicate light fittings were not broken by overly-vigorous dwarf-dusting.  He had just dislodged a scarily-sized spinner when the front doors to the ballroom flew open, and two additional dwarves arrived. Dancing out of the way of the falling spider, Bilbo scowled at the noise and the spinner.

“Oh, lads! This place is perfect. Well done!” An older, white-bearded Dwarf beamed at the room, while his taller, scarier companion glared at the fixtures.

“It’s a bit frilly if you ask me,” the other said and Bilbo bristled at the description. The room was not frilly! The filigree wood carvings on the walls were of Elvar make, and were still considered very stylish.

“You must be Master Baggins. Balin Fundin, at your service. My brother, Dwalin.” Bilbo bowed in greeting to the venerable Dwarf, and as he straightened, Balin pressed a bag of coins into his hands. “Slightly more than a hundred there, Master Baggins. For your trouble.” Balin’s coat was of fine red wool and artful design and had Bilbo been visiting Dwarfland, he would have taken Balin aside for a good long talk about wool, pipeweed and Dwarfish art. For a moment, Bilbo contemplated inviting Balin upstairs for a cup of tea, but the arrival of two more, no three more dwarves derailed that thought.

“Bombur! Wait til you see this kitchen!” Kili sounded far too excited than even the impressive Baggins’s kitchen warranted. Bilbo looked past Balin and watched in stunned horror as a massive dwarf trundled in Kili’s wake towards the kitchen, towing a veritable train of mechanised wagons in his wake. The wagons were brimming with vegetables, fruits, meats and was that an entire pig?

Bilbo’s mouth opened and he was certain he said something. It was however lost in the shouts of surprise from a dwarf wearing the most ridiculous hat and another dwarf with an axe for a hat, who had opened the storeroom. “Would you look at that! Dwarf-made tables and chairs! We're going to need more though.”

"There's another storeroom at the back," Bilbo stammered but it was lost in the ruckus of three more dwarves arriving, this time with copious amounts of alcohol in tow. "This is the first load, Dori's rounding up the rest," a finely bearded dwarf cried. Shouts of excitement greeted the arrival of the ale and wine and Balin left Bilbo, standing forlornly in the middle of the room, to join his compatriots.  If this small amount of dwarves made this much noise, Bilbo feared not just for his own night's peace, but that of his neighbours.

"Plenty of glasses, just need a good wash," one of the new arrivals shouted.

"This whole place needs a good wash," the tall Dwalin boomed, but his expression did not denote too much disapproval of the dirt.

"Ah," Bilbo began, ready to defend the state of his home, but Balin, clearly the senior of the group clapped his hands loudly. "Let's get to work then, we've not much time before sunset." A rousing chorus of agreement rose in the air, Kili joining in as he walked in from the kitchen, munching an apple. Bilbo clutched his feather-duster and debated the merits of offering a few words of caution to his robust invaders. His mother had treasured so much of this room, and Bilbo was already in despair at the state of the floor, as a result of heavy workboots.

"I…, please be careful!" Bilbo cried.

It was like shouting into a storm. Lost on the deaf ears of those too busy to listen, and my word, were they busy. Buckets of soapy water appeared, and windows, doors, floors and walls were scrubbed within an inch of their existence. Dwalin hefted massive tables from the storeroom on his own, while dusters and beeswax polish were applied most vigorously to any wooden surface. Bilbo dashed to save his mother's lace doilies from being press-ganged into duster service, and then with his hands still full of doilies, raced to rescue his father's feather fascinator from being used to reach the top lights. More dwarves arrived, bearing more ale and mead, and food. In fact, there was a steady procession through the ballroom, into the kitchen, out of the front doors as more and more foodstuff and party paraphernalia arrived.

Fine cutlery flew over his head towards a dwarf with an unfortunate haircut who was polishing glass, cutlery and plates. Plates which Bungo had secured from Elvar potters years ago joined the cutlery in the air and Bilbo felt his heart lurch and stumble as nimble, awful dwarves caught the plates and dishes. "No, no, no."

When Mr Axe-Head Dwarf literally leapt over Bilbo to catch an ill-timed plate, and Kili clambered onto his brother's shoulders to reach the decorative beer mugs on the mantle, Bilbo clutched the doilies so hard, he felt sure the lace pattern would be etched onto his skin forever.

"Firewood is here."

"Ori, don't breath on the forks."

"But I can see my face!"

"Flimsy, poncy Elvar material this."

"Oi, who nicked my duster. It was just here."

Ever so slowly Bilbo edged out of the room towards the secondary staircase leading to the ballroom. A stunned litany of 'Oh, oh, no, no, please, oh, oh' was falling from his lips as the dwarfish maelstrom of cleaning and ruining his life increased. Unable to bear it one moment longer, Bilbo retreated and climbed the stairs with a pounding heart. His parent's legacy was doomed, destroyed. He'd never be able to enter the ballroom again. Not after this. Perhaps once the dwarves were gone, he could just lock the doors to the ground floor and never return. That's assuming the dwarves actually left. A surge of fear urged him up the stairs and he skidded to a trembling halt in his sitting room. With far more care than even treasured doilies warranted, Bilbo placed his rescues on a handy table and collapsed onto a poufy settee.  "I'm going to kill, Gandalf. I am."

 

It was the smell of something truly heavenly that raised Bilbo from his anxiety induced stupor. Roast pork with apples? Drawn more by his stomach and watering mouth than by any desire to breach the chaos of the dwarf-infestation, Bilbo trotted down the long narrow stairs that led straight into the kitchen. The heady aroma which wafted up the wooden stairs laid down years ago by careful Hobbit-craftsmen blossomed into a wondrous confection for the nasal passages. Suckling pig, Westfarthing apples, apple-cider basting and an unknown pungent spice mix.

Within the kitchen a more controlled, more familiar chaos reigned, one that Bilbo felt far more comfortable within. Bombur, the large dwarf-chef was moving swiftly between pig, various vegetable dishes and a roast leg of lamb he was preparing. Fili was cleaning and peeling an enormous barrel of root vegetables, and the dwarf with the oddly styled hair and beard was rolling out pastry.

"Mister Bilbo!" Fili called out, his smile broad beneath his moustache. Bilbo nodded in greeting, drawn unerringly towards the roast spit and Bombur. The large dwarf was covered in sweat, like he had run a four-mile footrace, but he beamed at Bilbo. "Excellent kitchen, Master Hobbit," he boomed.

"Thank you," Bilbo replied, oddly pleased at the compliment. "What is in that spice-mix, my good sir?"

Bombur tapped the side of his nose slyly, his smile wide as he basted the pinking flesh of the pig. "Old family recipe, handed down for years." Bilbo laughed and took up the basting as Bombur returned to the leg of lamb, no several, legs of lamb. "I can smell pepper and garlic, and maybe… rosemary, but there is something else you've added."

"You have a fine nose, Master Baggins. The rosemary is key – it works wonderfully with the apples but the secret ingredient will remain just that. A secret," Bombur laughed, his chest and belly jiggling with mirth. Bilbo was firmly of the view that the best chefs were large and well-portioned. They invariably used copious amounts of butter and fat in their cooking. Bombur was festooning the lamb with rosemary, garlic and olive oil. He added a liberal dash of red wine and vinegar before hauling open the largest of the ovens and adding the trays of lamb to the ones already inside. "Aren't you worried about cooking times?" Bilbo gasped.

Bombur shrugged, "It all seems to work out in the end. I remember which ones went in first." Bilbo nodded in horror, aghast to the notion. While Bombur turned to a large pot bubbling on the stove, Bilbo faithfully basted the pork. If a few of the crispy edges fell off and were tasted – the tasting was purely in the service of ensuring the pig was properly basted. A burst of noise and laughter filled the kitchen from the other room as Kili entered, the door swinging closed behind him.

"Where do you need me, Bombur?"

"Cake. The recipe is on the far counter."

With most of the kitchen given over to dinner and the various dishes to feed however many hordes were descending upon them, the back half of the kitchen had been relegated for desert preparation. Bilbo recalled with fondness sitting on the stairs and watching the various caterers prepare for his parent's guests. The cool, smooth stone counter near the window which overlooked the Baggins's allotment and the Party Tree was perfect for fine pastries and desserts. The smaller oven was already heating, the gas working quickly. Fascinated, Bilbo watched Kili approach the bench and haphazardly piled ingredients. The young dwarf picked up the recipe and scanned it, briefly. "Seems simple enough," he quipped, throwing the paper onto the bench.

"Simple enough for a simpleton?" Fili laughed and then cursed as he sliced his thumb.

Ignoring his brother, Kili began unpacking the ingredients and searched for a large mixing bowl. "Where is the drunken fruit, Bombur?"

"In the cold room. Don't throw away the sauce, you'll use it later." Kili stomped over to the cold room and disappeared inside, emerging shortly with another massive bowl (not one of Bilbos). "Mahel, Bombur, how much brandy did you put in this?"

"Enough," Bombur laughed, as he put another three pots on the stove. "You done with those tubers yet, Fili?"

A horrified suspicion dawn on Bilbo as he stared at Kili. He couldn't possibly be. Could he? Astute suspicions were confirmed as Kili began shaking, literally, a bag of flour into the large mixing bowl, covering the stone with a fine powder. The dwarf started hacking at the largest slab of butter Bilbo had ever seen and threw the pieces into the flour.

Unable to help himself, Bilbo gasped, "You're making fruitcake? For tonight?"

Kili looked up from the massacre of butter and flour and laughed, "Well, the cake isn't for next week, Mister Baggins."

More of the butter was hurled into the ocean of flour, drowning beneath its powdery waves. "Fruitcake? Tonight?" Bilbo cried again.

"Yes, sir."

Kili ripped open a bag of sugar and was about to pour it into the flour when Bilbo broke. No one prepared a fruitcake and ate it on the same day. No one. Fruitcakes were a work of love and time and patience. If you wanted a fruitcake for a special occasion, you baked it three months in advance. "Argh!" Bilbo cried. Abandoning the pig to Bombur, who clearly knew how to cook, but had no idea about baking, Bilbo launched himself at Kili and stopped the young dwarf just in time. "This is not how you make a fruitcake, my boy!"

Wide, brown eyes stared at him like he was a rampaging boar. Bombur and Fili looked up from their tubers and vegetables, eyes equally wide. "It’s not?" Kili gulped. Bilbo firmly removed the bag of sugar from Kili's stunned hands and exclaimed, "No! It is not!"

"But the recipe…."

Bilbo tore the offending paper from Kili's grasp and snorted at the short description around the preparation of the mixture. "Ridiculous! Fruitcakes may be hardy and stiff, but this.. this would be awful to eat! Dry as a bone. Well, one would be liable to choke to death on it!"

All three dwarves stared at Bilbo with shared expressions of 'what are you talking about?' The dwarf who Bilbo was later to learn was called Nori, said, "Fruitcake is supposed to be dry and tough. That's why you slather it in custard and cream."

"And it's a handy weapon if nothing else is available," Fili mused and Bilbo wasn't entirely certain he was joking.

"No, no," Bilbo said, shaking his head vigorously. "No. Not in my kitchen. If you are, are, going to perpetrate this culinary travesty it is not going to be my kitchen! No!"

Kili's face fell and he stared at the collected ingredients. "But's its traditional, Mister Baggins. I was almost looking forward it." Bilbo shook his finger at Kili, both at his forlorn expression and the shameless plea. "Traditional? I think not. Fruitcake is from Dunland, and I happen to know, personally, that they do not… do this! No." Before Kili could reply, or any other dwarf could throw in some horrendous reason why fruitcake should be treated like this, Bilbo declared, "I will bake this cake, how it is supposed to be and while it will not be as rich or moist as 10 weeks, let alone three months would have it, well.. well.. it’ll still be a far sight better than, than, than…"

"Weaponry?" Fili asked, a very definite smile on his face.

"Yes," Bilbo cried, pointing at the smirking dwarf. Bombur shrugged, clearly more concerned with dinner and his roast, and Nori eyed Bilbo carefully, as if he may suddenly critique the way he peeled vegetables. It was atrocious, if Bilbo was honest. The dwarf was barely leaving any flesh on the roots.

"Well, you won't need me then," beamed Kili, who stepped away, but Bilbo caught his arm. "Oh no, my lad. You're helping. If I can teach one dwarf the right way to make fruitcake, there may be hope for you all."

Kili looked more upset by this news than he had at the idea of moist fruitcake.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Kili's reticence lasted ten minutes and disappeared when Bilbo set him to creaming the butter and sugar. 'To a light, fluffy consistency, Mr Durin.' Bilbo's antique mixer was the true draw to the young dwarf and his eyes light up as Bilbo took out the old artifice. Reverently Bilbo placed the well-used device in Kili's care and said softly, "Mind how you use it, my lad. It's older than me."

"It's beautiful, Mr Bilbo. I haven't seen one of these before. Heard of them, but never actually clapped eyes on one. Wow," Kili gasped, and he received the mixer with the same care as one handled newborns. "Hollin-made, yes?" he asked.

Bilbo nodded. "Correct. The finest of dwarfish devices combined with the elegance of Elvar design. My Great Aunt Pansy gave it to my Grandfather and it was an antique then. She never said where she found it, but it's been a treasured part of this kitchen ever since. Works like a dream too." Kili was nodding, and lest he get lost in the thrill of using the old beauty, Bilbo tapped the revised recipe on the counter. "Follow it exactly, please. No artistic interpretations."

Based on his expression, Kili had no wish to interpret any aspect of the cake artistically, and Bilbo left him to it. Fortunately, a fruitcake was relatively simple to make, but Bilbo was determined to make this cake truly spectacular. Putting the drunk fruit to one side, Bilbo ran upstairs to raid his own pantry. He added a good selection of nuts (from a winter harvest gift basket he'd never opened), molasses (from the rich sugar cane fields in the South Farthing), and cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg and cloves. He wavered over the vanilla beans and almonds, and in the end, threw them in his makeshift hamper.

He was pleased to see that Kili was taking his task seriously and already had the sturdy mixer working and he was adding the sugar slowly to the creamed butter. "Good lad. When you are done, use the other end of the mixer to beat up the eggs – but only the yolks."

"What do I do with the whites?" Kili asked, focused on the mixer. "Put them to one side for now, please." Kili nodded. Turning to Bombur, Bilbo asked, "I assume you wanted several large cakes, sir?" Bombur nodded, intently focused on an apple glaze and soup on the stove.

A swell of contentment surged through Bilbo and he set to work on the dry ingredients. Outside the sun was dipping towards the horizon. Sunset was still hours away, but large fruitcakes needed hours to bake. The broad window looking out in the allotment was spotted with watermarks and dust but the view was peaceful. Several small hobbits played in the shade of the Party Tree and Mrs Cotton was leaning over her fence chatting to young Miss Burrows. As he worked, Bilbo hummed an old travelling song from Dunland and at some point, Kili joined him.

By the time they had combined all the mixture, and were preparing the baking tins, the other three dwarves had joined in their haphazard music, a deep hum rumbling through the kitchen. Kili was fascinated with the process of lining the tins with baking paper and brown paper. He was a dab hand at precisely lining up the edges and ensuring an even thickness on all the tins. "Won't the paper catch alight?" he asked.

"The oven is at a low enough heat. The trick is a long, slow cook in a low heat. The paper may brown, but it won't catch." Together they slide the three large cakes into the 'small' oven which still had room to spare. "And now we can rest, my lad. Once the cakes are ready, we'll take them out and feed them some more brandy." Dusting his hands off, and covering himself in even more flour, Kili smiled. "I look forward to trying it, Mister Baggins."

"As do I," a clear female voice said and the deep rumble of music stopped.

"Mother!" Kili smiled. A tall, regal dwarf stood in the doorway and her smile was full of affection and love as she embraced Kili. Fili likewise extracted himself from mountain of par-boiled potatoes he was drowning in oil. His embrace was not as effusive as Kili's but then perhaps eldest sons felt the need to set some decorum. Bilbo in turn greeted her with a deep bow, but not as deep as the ones Nori and Bombur gave from their posts near stove and spit respectively.

"Lady Dis, it is an honour," Bombur boomed, his red face glistening with sweat.

"Everything smells wonderful, good Bombur. I'm sure my brother will be pleased." Bombur turned even redder and coughed a "Thank you, m'Lady."

Kili instantly drew his mother towards the cooler side of the kitchen and pointed out the Hollin-mixer. While Lady Dis murmured in appreciation of the device, Bilbo cleaned up, wiping the counter and stacking the dishes for cleaning. Bungo had had an automated dishwasher installed at the far end of the kitchen, and it would make short work of most of the mess. Kili suddenly popped up by his side and said, "Let me take those, Mister Baggins," and he disappeared, leaving Bilbo alone with Lady Dis. Her smile was warm.

"Thank you for allowing my family to use your wonderful ballroom, Mr Baggins."

"Oh, oh, its nothing, " Bilbo said and felt that perhaps, afterall, it wasn't a lie.

Lady Dis inclined her head and touched the smooth stone counter. Her hands were unlike any nobles' Bilbo had seen. Her hands were calloused and scarred – like she had worked for a living once. "I have a small favour to ask of you, Mr Baggins."

Bilbo straightened to his full height and sucked in his stomach. "Ma'am?" Lady Dis had lovely blue eyes, and her dark hair fell over her shoulders in waves with delicate braids scattered throughout the dark sea of hair. "I understand that you are a baker of some repute." Confused, Bilbo opened his mouth to disagree and wondered when either Kili or Fili had had time to pass on that misconception. "Professor Grey speaks very highly of your muffins and biscuits."

Ah. Gandalf. Bilbo was both pleased and annoyed, a regular state of being caused by his friend. "Hardly, my Lady. I am but an amateur with effusive friends.” Who will not be receiving any more products of his ‘bakery’ ever again, Bilbo thought to himself.

Lady Dis smiled, and said, “Friends who are glad to speak of our talents are treasured companions indeed. Your amateur status aside, Mister Baggins, I have a favour to ask of you.” Bilbo smiled in return and did not bother to contradict her re the ‘value’ of certain friends. He bowed slightly, awaiting her request. “Fruitcake is traditional at dwarf feasts, I think both as a means to get revellers to leave and to be used as handy weapon in the case of a brawl.”

Bilbo flashed Fili a look of sheer horror, both at the thought of being aware of how awful your cake was, and fully expecting it to be hurled at guests. He was even more disturbed by the notion that a brawl might ensue. Fili’s smirk did nothing to reassure Bilbo’s wild eyes. Lady Dis however caught his hand in hers and said quietly, “Don’t fear, Mr Baggins. There will be no brawling this evening. Not with my brother here.” Bilbo nodded weakly, images of the ballroom torn asunder and besmeared with fruitcake still filling his head. Lady Dis continued, “You have my word on this, Mister Baggins.”

At this, Bilbo straightened and bowed, “Thank you, my Lady.”

“Now that you are reassured, Mister Baggins, my request. My brother is not overly fond of fruitcake.” Bilbo nodded, wondering who would indeed be ‘fond’ of dwarfish fruitcake. “He is however very partial towards apple strudel. In fact, I believe he’d paid good gold for a decent strudel.”

Bilbo beamed. He was awfully fond of a good strudel too. “Strudel with paper pastry or….” Lady Dis confirmed, “With paper pastry. Thin and crispy, with that lovely gooey centre.” Bilbo nodded in concert. “Ma’am, I would be honoured to prepare a strudel for your brother. Honoured indeed.”

The Lady’s smile was bright and lovely, and light up her eyes with laughter. “Excellent, thank you, Mister Baggins. Do you have enough ingredients?” Fili leapt up, no doubt keen to escape the drudgery of potatoes and cried, “I’ll go get them. What do we need, Mister Baggins?”

Certain that the task was well in hand, Lady Dis departed with a round of goodbyes and good lucks and Bilbo wrote down on a thin parchment the ingredients Fili needed to source. He had most of what was needed for the paper pastry, but they had used all of the candied and drunk fruit for the cake. “Will two desserts be enough, Fili?” The young dwarf looked back at him and thought for a moment. “We don’t usually have more than one, Mister Baggins. Usually the feast is big enough that a small piece of cake is more than sufficient. But if dessert is actually going to be edible…. What do you think? What do hobbits like for dessert?”

Bilbo laughed. What did hobbits like for dessert? That was a very, very long list comprising of more cakes, pies, tarts and puddings than the components of any main course of a feast. Not to mention all the ‘afters’ and ‘midnight snacks’ that followed dessert. Lest he overwhelm the young dwarf, Bilbo suggested, “Nothing like a good sticky pudding or a roly poly. More winter puddings, but they might be nice on a chill spring evening.” Fili’s eyes glowed and he asked, “Is a sticky pudding one of the steamed things covered in sauce, like toffee?”

“Yes. You can do any number of sauces. Syrup, jam, fruit, toffee, date.” Fili was nodding. “Both sounds grand, Mister Bilbo. Add what you need to the list. This will truly be a feast to remember.”

Laughing to himself, Bilbo added more ingredients to the list and cast an eye on the timepiece above the window. They had time, if the feast was due to start at sunset, but only just. “Best make haste, young Fili. We have much to do if we are to be ready.” Clutching the list, Fili dashed off and a slightly wet Kili returned from washing up. “Wonderful auto-washer that, Mister Baggins.”

“No time for compliments, Kili. We have paper pastry to make.”

Like all pastry, paper pastry was not complicated from an ingredient perspective. It was however quite challenging from a rolling out and preparation point of view. It took no time at all to make the dough and set it aside to rest and Bilbo spent the remainder of the time while they waited for Fili, explaining how to roll out the paper pastry. They practiced on a spare bit of dough, Bilbo demonstrating how to use the thin rolling pin and how to stretch out the dough to a thickness thinner than paper. “The idea is to reach a consistency uniform and thin enough to read a printed page through the pastry.” Kili seemed fascinated both by the notion and the technique. “And that’s why it bakes so crispy and light?”

“Exactly, and it’s the most time consuming part of the preparation. Most folk simply by pre-made paper pastry these days.”

By the time Fili returned with a small mountain of flour, eggs, various fruits (dried and fresh), sugar, molasses, suet, jam, and miscellaneous items, Kili and Bilbo had cleaned the area and were ready to go. Opposite them, Bombur and Nori were going full steam ahead with various vegetable dishes, lamb, pork, chicken, gravies, sauces, potatoes, jellies, small pies, large casseroles, soups and fish. “How many guests will there be?” Bilbo belatedly asked.

“More than fifty, probably less than a hundred.” Kili supplied, and Bilbo stared. “You mean you don’t know exactly? What about RSVPs? Didn’t people respond to the invitations?” Kili stared back at him in confusion and Fili snorted, “Balin has it all well in hand, Mister Baggins. What’s first?”

The mild panic of an oncoming service was a heady experience, one Bilbo had only ever experienced at a distance as his parents directed the catering staff. Actually being in the midst of the furore and pace was exhilarating. Kili and Fili, while inexperienced, were nevertheless enthusiastic and attentive helpers. They followed his directions exactly and fortunately knew too little to deviate from the instructions too much, or even question him. Together the three of them made the dough and then rolled it out for the roly poly and Kili smeared a thick, generous layer of jam on the dough. Fili steamed dozens of puddings, using the smaller stove near their smaller oven. Bilbo created the thick, sticky sauces, a variety of them at Fili’s request. Kili rolled the jam lathered dough and wrapped the rolls into paper, ready for steam baking. While Bilbo prepared the filling for the strudel, Kili and Fili painstakingly rolled out the paper pastry with a determination so masterful they achieved a near transparent thickness. They even tested it by trying to read the original fruitcake recipe through the pastry. Their cries of delight as they could make out the words of the recipe, was most amusing. Fascinated, they later watched Bilbo spoon out the apple strudel filling onto one of their long paper pastry sheets and roll it carefully using a cloth until he had a delicate sausage like roll. Bilbo let them roll up the other two strudels, their care and focused-attention to the task most commendable.

The sun was setting by the time they were finished. Bilbo looked down at his flour covered self and regretting not grabbing an apron at some point. One of his sleeves was sticky with jam and the other was dotted with the remnants of nuts and raisins. Kili and Fili looked ten times worse, but their smiles were happy and content. “Are you sure you’ll manage on your own, Mister Bilbo?” Kili almost matched his brother in blondeness, his dark hair was so covered in flour. Poor Fili had taken on a ghostly hue, as both his face and clothes were showered in flour, powdered sugar and baking powder.

Bilbo nodded, resisting the urge to dust himself off. “I can certainly keep an eye on the various cooking stages, young Fili. You best leave now if you want to be back in time.” The pair of dwarves bowed deeply to him and left with Nori. Apparently the first guests to arrive would be those of the lowest rank, and the last to arrive would be their Uncle. They could not attend the feast in flour covered clothing with jam speckled hair, quite obviously. Bombur clearly was not going anywhere, and his feast seemed under control.

Bilbo took a moment to step outside, through the back kitchen door. The allotment was awash in golden sunshine coloured in reds and oranges. The Party Tree was silhouetted by the setting sun, a picturesque giant reaching towards the sky. The air was cooler now as evening fell, and it felt wonderful on his hot face. He sat on the small bench outside the door with a happy sigh and put his feet up on the stool positioned just for that. Hamfast probably sat here during lunch, while he ate whatever his goodwife had prepared. Across the way, a handful of children were chasing each other near the shrubbery and blackberry bushes. On the far end of the allotment, which honestly was more of a small park than a garden, old Ferdinand Took and Griffo Boffin were have a chinwag, their pipes creating a small cloud of pipeweed over their heads. The evening sky was still blue, fading to purple, and Bilbo felt oddly content and pleased with his afternoon. Who knew what the night held, but the smells streaming out of his kitchen were wonderful and rich, Bombur’s deep rumble accompanied by the clatter of spoons on pots, and lids rattling.

Under his breath, with no real thought about it, Bilbo sang:

 _There is an inn, a merry old inn_  
beneath an old grey hill,  
And there they brew a beer so brown  
That the Man in the Moon himself came down  
One night to drink his fill.

It had been years since he’d felt so light and at ease with himself. Happy smells of baking fruit cake could be discerned amidst the pork and lamb. Bilbo sang on, feeling most content.

 *


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The sad and empty ballroom was transformed. Nine dwarves had filled it with warmth and life. None of the guests had arrived yet, for which Bilbo was grateful as he wasn’t entirely sure he could handle any more than the twelve dwarves he’d already met. The tables and chairs had been polished and buffed to a point that they reflected the firelight and overhead lights with a soft, honey glow. Dwarfish banners and decorations hung from the walls and lights. The cutlery and plates shone, polished within an inch of their lives. Not a speck of dust or dirt remained. The floor radiated light and health. A quiet air of expectation hung over the room, the calm before a storm. Large barrels of ale, mead and wine clustered near the bar. A space was set aside for the musicians and a small dance floor had been created to one side. The room felt alive and awake. Bilbo wiped his eye, wondering at where the surge of emotion came from. This wasn’t his party, but it warmed his heart far more than he expected to see the party room in use.

“Mister Baggins?” Bombur boomed and Bilbo returned to the kitchen, pushing the door open with a touch a sadness. “I think your puddings are ready.”

They were indeed and the sauces smelled heavenly. He had elected to prepare three sauces, syrup, toffee and sticky berry. The sauces were being kept warm on the stove, on a low heat. Carefully Bilbo began extracting the puddings and ladled a generous helping of sauce into each bowl. Syrup, toffee, berry, in that order. The sauce covered the puddings, a glistening orb of sugary goodness and looked positively ready to be devoured.

He placed the puddings in the dedicated warming cupboard, giving them time to absorb the sauce and stay moist. There wouldn’t be enough puddings for each dwarf (dependent on the final numbe of guests) to have one each, but that hadn’t seemed to bother Fili. The roly polys were also close to being ready. He’d only bake the strudel once the feast started. More importantly, the fruitcake was almost done. Bilbo braved the heat of the oven and risked pouring a little more brandy onto the cake. He should really wait for it to be out of the oven, but without the weeks of careful feeding, the cake would not be as moist as he’d like. “Smells fantastic, Mister Baggins.”

“Bilbo, please.” Bombur bowed slightly towards him, his face bright red with the exertions of the afternoon.

Guests started arriving as Bilbo pulled out the first cake. He heard clear, deep voices in the room, a rising commotion of impressed compliments and comments. A thrill of excitement ran through him, and Bilbo shot Bombur a worried glance. Was anyone there to receive them? Bombur waved his concern aside, “Balin is there. Things will kick off fairly soon. There’ll be a lot of talk and reacquainting. Food will only be served once Thorin arrives.” Frowning a little, both at the word reacquainting and the idea of bored dwarves in his ballroom, but Bombur did not seem concerned. It wasn’t his ballroom however.

Once all three cakes were out of the oven and cooling on the counter, Bilbo cautiously stuck his head around the door. A growing cluster of dwarves were gathered around the bar, all slapping each other on the back, and talking loudly. As promised, Balin was there, resplendent in a bright, rich red coat, his white beard gleaming in the lights. Catching sight of Bilbo, he nodded, and Bilbo returned the nod, before ducking away, lest he be asked to meet the guests. All of the dwarves had been well-dressed and looked smart. Hopefully the party would not become too rowdy. The jam roly polies were now ready and Bilbo placed each roll whole into the warming cupboard, for slicing later. “I should get a custard started,” he mused.

“No fear,” Bombur replied from across the kitchen. “We’ve several large tureens of cream and custard in the cold room. For the fruit cake.” Relieved, Bilbo felt the top of the cakes on the counter. They were still warm, but cool enough for another feeding of brandy. Bilbo took a small sip himself and smacked his lips together in appreciation. It was the good stuff, no doubt dwarfish made.

“Try this, Master Bilbo.” Bombur held out a piece of soft pork on a fork from the carcass he was carving. Pleased, Bilbo walked over and took the piece, still hot to his touch and popped it in his mouth. The flesh was soft and fell apart in his mouth, oozing with flavour. “Oh, that’s good,” he laughed. Bilbo helped Bombur lay out the meat onto platters and boards, all of which were being kept warm over the special warming plates designed just for that. The lamb was soft and delicate. The chicken’s skin crisp and cracking. The pork belly was incredible, soft and delicious. Bombur had even prepared pork crackling, and apple sauce, apple jelly and boats upon boats of gravy. “Which dishes are the starters?” Bilbo asked, looking for and failing to see any lighter dishes to be served first.

“We don’t serve in the Elvar-style, but in the dwarfish. We bring out all the dishes at once. It’s a display of generosity and muchness,” Bombur replied proudly, sticking his chest out as he beamed.

Paling, Bilbo stared at his incomplete desserts and felt an unpleasant panic set in, “Oh dear. Does that include the desserts and puddings?” Shaking his head, Bombur laughed, “No. The cake is reserved for last. A sign that that party is ending.”

Relieved, Bilbo returned to assisting with the veritable mounds of meat. The temptation to lick his fingers was great but he resisted. Instead, like Bombur, he carefully popped small, choice pieces to one side and ate those in between moments of wiping his hands. It all tasted so, so good. Just when it seemed everything was under control, the hubbub from outside rose to a crescendo and Bombur looked up. “Thorin has arrived. We’d best hurry.”

Help arrived too, as several dwarves hurried in. “Bilbo, these are my brothers, Bofur and Bifur.” It was the hat and axe wearing dwarves and they too looked very smart in fur lined coats with intricate embroidered designs on the lapels. “Bombur, you’ve surpassed yourself,” Bofur cried and Bombur beamed. Two more dwarves entered to assist, Oin and Gloin, and the controlled chaos of service preparation commenced. Bilbo retreated to his side of kitchen lest he be trampled by the overzealous dwarves who side-stepped each other expertly, avoiding many a near miss with platters and plates.

He fed the cake a little more and startled enough to nearly lose his grip on the bottle when Bofur appeared next to him. “So, you’ve promised us edible fruitcake. I see you plan to make us so drunk that we’ll not notice any which way.” For a long second Bilbo stared at the taller dwarf, wondering if he was being serious or not. Bofur leant forward and took a long sniff of the cake. “Smells boozy and fruity. Looking forward to it. I owe my second cousin Beufor a good caking.” With that, Bofur was dragged away by Bifur and began salting potatoes and roasted vegetables. Bilbo stared at him in horror. Caking your cousin? However far removed he was, that sounded like a waste of good cake.

Service started with a crash. Gloin knocked over an empty kettle and then the dwarves were through the doors, bearing steaming platters of food. A chorus of happy voices greeted them. Bombur stayed in the kitchen, laying out more platters and bowls, pouring the results of his hours and hours of work into displays that made the mouth water. Rich golden roasted potatoes. Glistening, heavenly roast vegetables. Hearty soups. Poached salmon drowning in buttery sauce. Dumplings. Suet puddings. Stuffing. Asparagus wrapped in ham. Glazed pork. Buttery mash. Crackling. Cheesy potatoes. Enough gravy to float an armada. Miniature pies. Bowls of apple sauce. It all floated out to the waiting guests on the backs of a steady stream of dwarves, who were laughing and talking at the top of their voices. The music had started, a steady living beat, and each time the door opened, a burst of sound filled the kitchen. Laughter, song and happiness. Bilbo couldn’t help but smile.

When all the food had gone out, there was nothing left bar for a generous plate on the counter. Each and every pot, tray and dish had been emptied. Nothing was left. Bombur sat down on a small chair with a groan. “Finished, at last.” Bilbo patted the large dwarf on the shoulder and said, “Well done, Master Bombur. I have not seen a feast like that in many a year.” Bombur smiled and wiped his forehead with a damp hanky. “Thank you, Master Baggins. And thank you once again for the use of your kitchen. Wonderful kitchen, indeed.”

Bofur stuck his head around the door, his hat at a jaunty angle. “Come on, brother. Or there won’t be any food left.” Bombur clambered to his feet slowly, a low groan falling from his lips as he stood. “Coming, coming.” He pointed to the plate on the counter. “For you, Mister Baggins, unless you wish to join us.”

An especially loud cheer rose from the room, deep dwarfish voices roaring about something. Bilbo blushed and shook his head. “Thank you, but no. Please enjoy the feast, Bombur.” The chef bowed deeply at Bilbo and then left, his brother tipping his hat at him. The door closed, and the noise fell away, lost behind thick walls and stout wood. Bilbo pulled the plate Bombur had put aside for him closer and smiled in appreciation. The dwarf had been indeed generous, leaving him some of the choice pieces of meat and the best potatoes. Bilbo took the plate outside to the little bench and ate the rewards of their labour under the stars.

The street lamps had been light, filling the neighbourhood with soft light, but the stars were still visible overhead. Bilbo was normally quite sociable and enjoyed a good feast as much as the next hobbit. The past few years though he had found himself to be rather unsociable. He enjoyed his own company far more than he should, he supposed and the thought of sitting in a room full of loud strangers was more far disturbing than it ought to be. None the less, Bilbo relished the quiet of the evening, and not even the distant muted noise of the party bothered him. The food was delightful and Bilbo polished off the plate in good order, praising Bombur with each mouthful. He particularly enjoyed the potatoes, which were crispy on the outside and soft and fluffy on the inside. Wonderful.

He had half a mind to walk around to the front of Bag-end and check on how much noise the party was making. He did not want his neighbours overly disturbed by the dwarfish incursion. Bilbo further contemplated making himself a cup of tea, something to wash down the incredible meal. An even further distant thought was, he should really put the strudel in the oven.

“Mister Bilbo?”

Kili’s soft voice and touch woke Bilbo from sleep with a start. Blinking rapidly, Bilbo sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What, what?” Kili’s smile was broad and full of laughter. “Good thing I came to check on you, Mister Bilbo.”

“What, oh? Uhm…” Bilbo stammered, and stood up rapidly, shaking his head to clear the remnants of sleep. “Kili?”

“Yes,” Kili answered softly, and the chilly night air raised goose-bumps along Bilbo’s skin as he stood staring in shock at the dwarf. His sleep-addled brain raced to wake up and the rush of adrenalin was all his system needed. “The strudel!” Bilbo cried and raced into the kitchen, Kili trailing him. The three strudels were gone and poor Bilbo stared in horror at the empty space on the counter. “What?” he gasped, arms flapping in despair.

Kili joined him and nudged him gently, “I put them in the oven. Not five minutes ago. The feast is drawing to an end.” Bilbo clutched his hands, wringing them and wailed, “They need at least half an hour maybe more!”

“We have time, Mister Bilbo. Don’t worry. They are only starting the speeches now. Ole Dain can talk the hind leg off a donkey and he’s already several cups into his wine. I came to help get everything ready. It’s not every feast that the last course is the most anticipated.” His smile was a little flat, and he seemed less bright and cheery but Bilbo hardly knew the young dwarf, so he couldn’t say for sure. Perhaps he was simply tired. Pulling himself towards himself, Bilbo straightened and slapped himself lightly on the cheek.

“To work then, Master Dwarf.”

There wasn’t terribly much to do, bar decanting the cream and custard into serving bowls and pouring dishes. Kili had a steady hand, so either he had not drunk terribly much or was just that good, so Bilbo left him to the cream and custard and started on the icing for strudel.

Together they lined up the bowls of sticky puddings which were still lovely and warm, the sauce well incorporated with sufficient liquid still in the bowl. Bilbo had to slap Kili’s hand away from the ends of the roly polies as he sliced the perfectly cooked cakes. Between the roly polies, the steamed puddings and the fruit cake, there was more than enough dessert for the guests. Kili made a face as Bilbo topped the fruit cake with icing and marzipan. “You’re wasting good marzipan, Mister Bilbo.”

With one eyes on the timepiece, tracking the baking time of the strudel and an ear on the noise from the ballroom, Bilbo huffed. “Best you try it before you knock it, my lad. Here.”

He pushed a small piece of cake towards Kili who stared it in trepidation. The young dwarf may have been enthusiastic at the idea of moist fruitcake, but when faced with the fearsome stuff, he paused. Bilbo deliberately took a piece himself, one with lots of marzipan on it and popped it in his mouth. It was good, for a cake baked and served on the same day. The brandy left a sharp aftertaste but on the whole, he was fairly pleased with the result. Another three months and the cake would be perfect.

Kili tried a small piece of his slice and Bilbo covertly watched his reaction. Eyebrows raised, a pleased smile broke across Kili’s face. “Hey, that’s pretty good.” The dwarf poured a little cream onto the cake and shoved the rest into his mouth. Munching away, his eyes light up and Bilbo laughed. Swallowing and clearing his throat, Kili joined in the laughter, “Who would have known? That’s pretty darn good, Mister Bilbo. I must say.”

Given that they had loads more dessert than usual, they agreed to only cut up two of the cakes. Bilbo hoped that they’d leave the third entirely and he planned to invite the dwarves back in three months’ time and serve them fruit cake the way it was supposed to be served. Old, moist and heavenly. They were just pulling the strudels out of the oven, when Fili appeared, a blast of noise from the ballroom accompanying his arrival. “They’re just about ready. Frenir is threatening to sing the Lay of Durin, so we best head him off with the cake.”

Nodding, Bilbo pointed to the waiting trays of puddings, cake and roly poly. “I think we’ve almost enough trays for each table. Check for me, please Mister Durin.” Fili counted, his eyes wide at the sight of all the delicious treats. He re-arranged a few bowls, and said gleefully, "I can't wait to see their faces." Kili drizzled a generous pouring of icing over the strudel, trying to match Bilbo's pattern, and said to Bilbo softly, “I think we should bring the strudel as is to my Uncle. He can then share it with whomever he chooses.”

“All three of them?” Bilbo asked, a knife poised over the strudel. Kili nodded, "It’s a tradition as well. The King, er, highest ranked noble shares the spoils of the best dish. He'll find it hilarious." Bilbo let the slip pass and smiled, “We best get some help then to serve…”

Bilbo’s words faded as Bombur, Bofur and Bifur arrived, all laughing loudly. “Ah, all ready to go. Grand!” Bofur cried and without a further word, the three dwarves took two trays apiece and service started. As they passed through the doors, the welcoming roar of voices was tinged with surprise and Bilbo felt his nerves rise. What if the dwarves didn’t like his puddings? He half feared for a moment that his ballroom may end up wearing roly poly and sticky pudding. Kili shot him an encouraging smile and said, “They’ll love them, Mister Baggins.”

While Bilbo finished the decorations on the strudel, carefully placing fresh cherries and berries around the flaky pastry, he kept an ear tuned to the noise from the other room. The general noise seemed muted, almost too quiet. Kili and Fili were peering around the door, their expressions strange. After placing the last cherry and giving the strudels a critical look, Bilbo could stand it no longer. He joined the young dwarves at the door and the pair made space for him. They said nothing, and let Bilbo take in the room.

The dwarves at the table closest to the door were all silverhaired and old, and several were poking the puddings with their spoons cautiously, like the doughy delights were about to explode. The cake sat untouched on the trays, all of their focus on the puddings. Bilbo felt his heart sink. That was until FIli poked him and said, "Look, two tables over."

Disappointed, Bilbo looked to where Fili directed. This table was filled with younger dwarves, beards and hair festooned with braids and ornaments. At first it was a little difficult to see, as the table was so crowded, and they seemed to be jostling each other. Through a brief gap, Bilbo saw clean dishes and empty trays. A cheer rose from the table and a dwarf stood, his moustache and beard smeared with cream and he cried, "Any one got a spare pudding?" A chorus of 'Nos' rose in the room, and the older dwarves nearest to the door pulled their own puddings closer, and tucked in. Bilbo smiled.

He stood back and grinned at his young apprentices. "They seem to like them." Fili and Kili laughed and Kili said, "No, they love them!"

Once the strudel had cooled enough to serve, Fili and Kili each took a strudel and motioned for Bilbo to follow them with the third. All of the cream and custard had been served, so the strudel was the final note of the grand feast. Feeling more than a little nervous, Bilbo grasped the tray and hurried after them.

The ballroom was a riot of warmth, people and happy noise. Oin and Gloin were playing a rousing tune on a pair of fiddles, and Ori and Nori were behind the bar, passing out drinks to waiting guests. Most of the party though were seated and for all that they were loud and boisterous dwarves, Bilbo felt a wave of affection for them. They were all eating his puddings and judging by the expressions on their faces, they were all pleasantly surprised. As Bilbo passed a table, he heard a pair of dwarves arguing over the last piece of fruit cake on their table. “You said you hated fruit cake.”

“I do. This isn’t fruit cake! It’s too good!”

The main table where the guest of honour was seated drew near and Lady Dis stood as her sons and Bilbo approached. Her smile was broad and welcoming. Bilbo picked out which dwarf was Thorin immediately. He shared the dark, handsome looks of Lady Dis, and his bearing was regal and full of authority. He did not smile as his nephews drew near, but something akin to surprise flickered across his face. Kili and Fili placed their strudels on the table in front of their Uncle, their own smiles barely kept in check. Bilbo finally placed his own, and bowed his head to Thorin who nodded in reply. Dis inclined her head at Thorin’s questioning eyebrow and he smiled back.

“Nephews, you honour me indeed.” Fili and Kili beamed and bowed. Bilbo felt his cheeks grow red as Thorin said, “And thanks to you, Master Hobbit. Both for the strudel and the ballroom. We are honoured.”

“And for the sticky puddings!” a dwarf cried.

“And the roly moly!”

“Roly poly!”

“That too!”

Laughter rose and more cheers of thanks filled the air. Bilbo grew rather quite red in the face. Balin, his nose red from a little too much mead, rose and raised his glass to Bilbo. “Thanks indeed, Mister Baggins. To Mister Baggins, finest host in Hobbiton!”

The dwarves all rose to their feet, even Thorin and raised their glasses in a toast. “To Mister Baggins!”

“And his delicious fruitcake!” a dwarf cried, who sounded like Bofur, but Bilbo wasn’t too sure. “Hear, hear!”

As red as a beetroot, Bilbo bowed in thanks, feeling like he had summited a great mountain and truly accomplished something great.

**~~**~~**

Bilbo awoke to a silent house on a quiet morning. Even the birdsong outside seemed muted, as if the birds were feeling a tad cautious and sensitive to noise. Somewhat belatedly he realised he was not in his soft bed. Instead, he was laying on one of the settees, an old comforter from the linen cupboard draped over him. Bemused, he sat up and stretched, not resisting the yawn that stretched his jaw and widened his eyes. Feeling his back and neck crick at the deep stretch, Bilbo stood, rubbing his face and trying to recollect falling asleep.

He remembered the success of the fruitcake, but did not really recall what had happened thereafter with any sort of clarity. There had been singing and lots of ale. Balin and Bofur had persuaded him to try some strong dwarf ale, and he vaguely recalled signing the _Merry Old Inn_ with Bofur and Kili. Perhaps the ale had been far stronger than he had thought. While the thought of the massive clean up which awaited him did not fill him with any measure of delight, Bilbo bravely decided to go downstairs and survey the damage before a cup of tea. If the disaster was too severe, he'd need to fortify himself with a good cuppa and tackle it after breakfast.

The timepiece in the hall was apparently faulty as it declared that it was nearly ten thirty. Bilbo didn't feel like he'd missed breakfast or second breakfast, so he ignored the device and headed down into the large kitchen, fully expecting a list a sink full of dirty dishes.

A pristine, glistening kitchen greeted him, with surfaces that shone in the morning sunlight streaming in from the window. The place still smelt heavenly, a mix of roast pork, various herbs and the strong tang of well-seasoned fruitcake, but otherwise there was no evidence of the party preparations. No, that was not true. The kitchen was far cleaner than it had been the day before, and looked ready for another day of baking and cooking. Pleasantly surprised, Bilbo checked the various drawers and cupboards and everything was in its place, albeit stacked a bit more orderly than they had been. Even the ovens were clean.

The sole spot of disappointment was the cold room. Bilbo had left the last fruit cake in there and he found the room spotless. No cake in sight. Deflating a little, Bilbo shrugged. It was their cake after all. Feeling more positive about his morning, Bilbo entered the main room, host to so many of his parents balls, parties and dinners, confident now that the dwarves had cleaned up after themselves.

They had indeed. Spectacularly. Every wooden surface gleamed with polish. The windows shone in the sun. Tables and chairs were packed away. Decorations, ale, mead, musical instruments, fiddles, and extra chairs were gone. Bilbo didn't bother counting the cutlery or the glasses. He felt the dwarves had earned his trust and had given him no reason to doubt their integrity. They may have been boisterous and loud, but they had also been polite, prompt and wonderful guests. Beaming, Bilbo looked around the room, his hands in his pockets, bouncing on his heels. For an event that he had feared would be the end of his parent's legacy, it had turned out very well.

Nodding to himself, Bilbo headed back upstairs, ready now for a cup of tea and some breakfast. 

 

Later that day, after a triple breakfast for elevenses, followed by a light lunch, Bilbo was sitting in his chair on his balcony garden reading a book and contemplating iced buns. The sun was temperate, not too hot, and the air was deliciously fresh, but not too brisk. On the street below people's voices were raised in happy tones, greeting friends and neighbours. Across the road, young Violet Took was practicing her flute, filling the neighbourhood with bursts of haphazard perfection. Bilbo put down his book, fought a yawn and wondered if the effort to stand up to make some iced buns was worth it.

A not so gentle knock on his front door derailed that debate, and Bilbo looked up, his heart pounding. Surely not. Not two days in a row.

Frowning, Bilbo cautiously walked to the door and peered out of the side windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of his potential guest, salesman or invading dwarf. Alas, his efforts were in vain and the mystery knocker's identity remained just that – a mystery. Oh well, there was only one way to be sure. Taking in a deep breath, Bilbo opened the door.

Young Kili stood on the doorstep, looking over his shoulder, long hair caught up in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. As the door opened he turned around, a nervous smile on his face. “Mister Baggins!”

“Master Durin,” Bilbo smiled. “I trust there are no imminent party-related emergencies?”

“No,” Kili laughed, “No party emergencies. Actually, I’m here mostly to relay our thanks. Mother insisted that one of us should extend our gratitude in person.” Bilbo waved his words aside, “That’s not necessary, Kili. You hired the room and provided the food. I merely assisted in part.”

Kili shook his head, “No, you were very kind, Mister Baggins. Not many folk would be so quick to help strangers, let alone strange dwarves. Here, a token from us, in gratitude.” He held out a small wooden box, which was simple and plain but well made. Pleased, Bilbo took the box and felt by its weight that the ‘token’ was inside. He opened the lid and blinked in surprise. A delicate artificial bird rested inside, it’s cunning gears and cogs barely visible under the fine brass and gold.

“From my Uncle’s workshop. A messenger bird.”

“This really isn’t necessary, Master Durin. Balin was most generous in his payment and while last night was unexpected, it was hardly unpleasant.” Bilbo peered at the fine little creature, fascinated with the exposed gears and wires. Looking up, he somewhat reluctantly handed the box back to Kili, who refused it.

“No, no, please. Consider a gift… and a bribe.”

Eyebrows now raised, Bilbo shuffled his feet, “Bribe?”

Kili’s smile was both sheepish and wicked, if that was possible. “I’d like to use your kitchen on a semi-regular basis, Mister Baggins.”

“Oh?” Bilbo hmmed, his curiosity rising.

“You see, Mister Baggins, Fili and I are both studying at the University and our Mother has limited our stipends, for our own good she says.” Bilbo shared a sheepish smile with Kili, remembering well the strictures of a mother intent on teaching a son the value of money. “I have an idea for a business, something small, ad-hoc and well… Fili… we need space, as it were. A kitchen.”

Bilbo leant on the doorframe, the box clutched in his hand. “A kitchen?”

“It’s the cafeteria, you see. At the University. It’s positively awful.”

At this, Bilbo nodded in agreement. The culinary prowress of the University cafeteria was atrocious at the best of times. Hence Gandalf’s tendency to pop by for a quick snack on a regular basis. A small suspicion began to dawn on Bilbo. Kili continued, “And, well, you made fruit cake and those…”

“No, no, no!” Bilbo began, one hand on the door almost immediately. “I am not a baker, my lad. No.”

Kili’s face fell, but then he perked up and smiled, “We don’t expect you to, er, ah, bake. Just… show us how, maybe? We’ll do the rest.”

The young dwarf’s face was so earnest and hopeful that Bilbo nearly caved. He didn’t mind baking for himself and well, when travesties of culinary disaster were about to occur, but after a lifetime of maintaining the Baggins standard and tradition, he wasn’t about to allow the pathetic pleas of a poor student to sway him.

“You are welcome to use my kitchen, Master Kili. But if you and your brother wish to supply the students and faculty of the University with baked goods, you are on your own.” Bilbo felt that his voice was firm but fair and he resisted the twinge of guilt he felt. And the twist of envy.

Wilting a little, Kili sighed and dragged his booted foot on the welcome mat. “Thank you, Mister Baggins. May we come by tomorrow morning?”

“Certainly. You can go straight in, through the back door below,” Bilbo sniffed, feeling a tad uneasy. Some of the golden afternoon sunlight was falling over them, making him squint. It was time to withdraw. “Well, ah, if that’s all?”

Kili smiled weakly, doffed an absent hat and bid him farewell. Bilbo watched the dwarf descend to the street, his long hair swinging across his back. He closed the door firmly, just as firmly as he refused to feel guilty or uneasy about his refusal. For a long moment, Bilbo stood in the hallway and studied the box and messenger bird. He couldn’t quite identify the swirl of emotions in his heart, and the idea of iced buns was no longer appealing. Feeling slightly put out that his pleasant afternoon had been ruined, Bilbo placed the box on the hat stand, dragged his cloak and left, closing the door behind him.

It was time for a good long walk.

**~~**~~**

The next morning, Bilbo nearly wore a grove into the hallway, as he paced the floor. The noise and brewing disaster downstairs was almost more than he could bear.

He lasted as long as it took to smell burning sugar.

“That is not how you make caramel, Master Fili!”

**~~**~~**

Fin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you thought of this little AU

**Author's Note:**

> My first Bakery AU. Happily researched by watching copious hours of GBBO and Masterchef. This will be part one of a series of 'can be read as complete stories'.


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